


a list of atrocities done in your name

by besselfcn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Coping, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mild Gore, Past Ana/Jack/Gabriel, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 23:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15895905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: She thinks a lot about what she’ll say to him, when she finds him.





	a list of atrocities done in your name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crookedfingers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedfingers/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the name of the ruiner](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10439589) by [crookedfingers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedfingers/pseuds/crookedfingers). 



> This work is a direct but unofficial sequel to crookedfingers' fic "the name of the ruiner". This won't make much sense without the context of that one. Crook's fic depicts an explicit rape scene between Reaper and Soldier 76. While this fic isn't at all graphic in that sense, please do proceed with caution!

The worst part of being shot isn’t being shot. 

It’s the wound it leaves behind; the way it aches and itches as your body tries to stitch itself together. It’s the scab that forms around it, thick and calloused and begging to be torn free to expose the new, raw skin beneath. 

Ana remembers--twice, now--desperately wanting to to dig her fingers into her own eye socket and pull out what was left behind. She knew it’d hurt. She knew it was wrong, that it’d lead to infection and fester.

But what could be worse than this?

***

She says, “Okay, what the fuck happened?” and watches Jack crumble before her like a building on shattered foundations.

She lurches forward to catch him as he sways on his feet; he leans back hard against the wall, nearly knocks the wind out of himself as he slides to the ground, hands over his face like he doesn’t want to, can’t, let her look. 

“Jack,” she says, and when she tries to pry his fingers gently away from his face he shakes her off like he’s been shocked. 

Ice pulses through her veins.

“Jack,” she says, softer this time. “Tell me what happened.”

He shakes his head.  _ No, no, no, no, no _ . But it’s not for her. 

***

Over the next few days, she does her best not to let him catch on that she’s watching him. The fact that she hasn’t returned to her own home base does sort of give away that plot, but if he objects to her presence he’s not saying so. He gives her small smiles when he sees her around, even. 

And he’s--fine. As fine as he can be. 

He drinks too much, but he always has. He doesn’t talk too much, but that’s not unusual either. When he sleeps, it’s fitful, and she politely pretends she doesn’t notice him waking up gasping in the middle of the night. 

The only  _ incident _ , as she comes to call it, is about a week and a half after the fact. He’s in the makeshift kitchen, cooking on a hotplate; she’s tapping out some emails on her rickety cot. 

There’s a crash from the kitchen, like the sound of a plate dropping. She sighs and places her data pad aside, stands to try to see what Jack’s broken this time, when--

“ _ FUCK!” _

She stops short. 

There’s another crash; shattering glass, something falling over, something being  _ thrown _ \--

“ _ God DAMN it!” _

She closes her eyes. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

When she walks into the kitchen on the count of ten, Jack’s standing in the middle of the carnage. Plates strewn around. A microwave thrown to the floor. Whatever he was cooking for breakfast burnt and smoldering on the stove. 

“I’ll. Clean it up.” he says, before Ana can work up a response. 

_ I’ll help _ , is one option.  _ Are you okay _ , is another.

Both seem equally pointless.

“I’ll go find food,” she says instead.

Jack nods. He scrubs a hand over his face. 

“I’m sorry,” he calls after her as she’s nearly out the door, and she has to take a moment to lean against the wall and breathe deep against the stinging in her eyes. 

***

She thinks a lot about what she’ll say to him, when she finds him. 

_ I wanted to help you _ . Too forgiving.

_ You weren’t satisfied with everything you already took? _ Too petty.

_ He still loved you. Did you know that? Do you realize what you ruined for him? He’s lost you now. He’s never coming back from that. And what the fuck did you get out of it.  _

Too much.

Too little.

***

The specs come in a few days later.

_ I trust you have a good reason for this _ , the note attached says.  _ And for the disappearing act. Hell of a way to reconnect _ .

She looks at the blueprints, and the attached materials. Sent in lieu of questions.

She’s always liked Angela.

***

“Do you remember that time we went to Ixtapa.”

Ana swallows around the sudden lump in her throat. “Yes,” she says, cautious.

Jack’s drunker than usual, tonight--a feat for him, and she tries to stay close when he’s like this. No matter how often she tells him she’s not going to pick him back up--well. Here she is. 

And here  _ he  _ is. Feet dangling off the side of his bed. Talking about fucking Ixtapa. 

“You and me,” he says. “And him.”

“I remember.”

It was so rare they’d all three gotten a weekend off at once. And Gabriel had arranged the whole thing; flown the three of them as a surprise out to  _ Mexico _ , all the way from Switzerland, had booked a hotel and everything in advance. They’d spent the weekend not sure whether to stay locked in their room making a mess of the king-sized bed or romp around the beach like stupid, carefree children.

“It was beautiful there.” He takes another drink out of the nearly drained whiskey bottle. She thinks for a second of taking it from him. Decides against it. “You wore this--” and he gestures vaguely. “It was like it tried to cover as little as it could.”

Ana can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of her mouth. She remembers the swimsuit he’s talking about. Hardly supported a thing, and nothing she’d have worn without someone to see her in it. “I had a good body,” she says. “Had to show off the war wounds Fareeha gave me.”

Jack smiles. His eyes are closed. “You knew what you were doing.”

“Of course I did.”

“You always did.”

Ana looks away from him. 

_ What if _ , says that voice that she works to suppress.  _ What if. What if. _

“We should go back,” Jack whispers. She looks over, and he’s laid himself down in bed, covers pulled up to his neck. His eyes are still closed. His face looks open, like a wound.

“To Ixtapa?” she asks. 

He doesn’t answer.

When she runs her fingers through his hair, slow and careful, she sees that he’s asleep.

***

“Ana,” he barks out, when she’s already sprinting through the base, “Contact.”

***

This is it, she thinks. This is it. This has to be it. 

***

“West, go west, he’s heading up the cliffside--”

***

Angela’d only sent enough materials for one round. Ana’s a good shot--she’s the  _ best _ shot--but it’s not about aim, this time. She’s hoping just one is enough. 

***

She sees him ahead of her, a shadow, a pool of black smoke that turns around a corner and is gone, and when she sprints after him she feels the burning in her lungs, a fire in her chest.

***

In Ixtapa, on the warmest night of their stay, they’d all took turns jumping off a sheer rock face into the sea. The shockwave had hurt like hell when she’d hit the water; but then she’d looked up and seen the both of them laughing above her, sharing some private joke, heads tipped back in reverent joy. 

She’d never felt so happy.

***

“Jack,” she says into her earpiece. “If I catch up to him. What do you want me to do?”

And Reaper stares up at her--on his knees, his body held captive by the electromagnetic field radiating from her rifle, the loaded round desperate to  _ consume _ .

The silence on the other end stretches on. And on. And on.

Just when she’s starting to panic, static crackles in her ear.

“You know what you’re doing, Ana,” Jack says. “You always do.”

She exhales.

Reaper growls at her, like something feral.

“Are you going to shoot me, Amari?” he asks, a reverberating sound.

She reaches forward and plucks the mask off. 

This time, she does not flinch.

She pushes the barrel of the gun into his face; between his eyes; sinks it deep into the blackness behind them until it won’t go any further.

“Do you know, Gabriel,” she says, and she pronounces the word like a condemnation, “that the worst part of being shot isn’t being shot?”

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on twitter or tumblr @besselfcn


End file.
